


Delphinium Cardinale

by Vampiricalthorns



Series: Garden of Flames [2]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Hanahaki Disease, He gets better, I love them both, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Canon, References to Illness, Roy is dying, also don't mention al's gloves i know they're not canon to bh, i just needed extra detail, oblivious idiots, this is angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-27 06:10:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18190772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vampiricalthorns/pseuds/Vampiricalthorns
Summary: Science doesn't allow for plants to grow in ones lungs, because no light can gain access, thus hindering photosynthesis.Then again, science doesn't explainanythingwhen it comes to emotions.The one thing Roy is the most grateful for, which threatens to make him laugh, is that at least he’s not allergic to pollen.God, he feels bad for those who are.





	Delphinium Cardinale

**Author's Note:**

> This is not beta read! This thing is likely chock full of grammatical mistakes, but _who cares_ because yet again this complete idiot (me) is writing and editing instead of studying for tests and finals. I should really learn to not be a bad student.
> 
> This is angsty.
> 
> Trigger warnings: blood, throwing up, references to illness, dying (basically what one should expect of me now)

It isn’t okay.

Five weeks and three days after Ed had had a panic attack in his office, Roy starts coughing.

It’s not really the kind of cough you would take any special notice of– after all, it’s turning toward winter and it’s probably just one of those colds that makes your throat itchy and your nose congested. The kind that will pass in three days or so.

Except–

It doesn’t. It persists and now it’s been over a week and he’s coughing more and getting a small fever. Roy chalks it up to the fact that it’s maybe just the flu. He takes the weekend calmly and makes sure to drink plenty of water and gets enough rest. Because then his immune system will be in the best shape possible to attempt to fight off the annoying bug set in his body.

It’s not just the coughing and the slight fever that makes him think that it’s a common case of the flu in the beginning– he feels stiffer than he should, but maybe he’s been sitting more stupidly in the office later, or not taken enough time to stretch out properly. There always seems to be a reason that leads him away from–

_That_ explanation. The complete unlikelihood of it makes him stray away from it again and again. Such a disease cannot possibly exist. Science doesn’t allow for anything like that. No person can have plants growing in their lungs, making them choke on petals stained with blood before they ultimately die a horrible and excruciating death. A disease where most of the sufferers commit suicide before they suffocate.

_But such a disease cannot happen because plants don’t grow inside the human body._

Or, Roy supposes they potentially _could_. Lungs are probably a good place to cultivate a seed, but there’s no way that the cold, hard science that he’s dedicated his life to could possibly explain how plants most people haven’t ever seen or been in close proximity to can grow in their lungs like it’s nobody’s business. And it also doesn’t explain how it grows when you’re _in love_ , which is the least scientific thing in the world and how you can live for months and months with a fucking plant taking up precious volume where there should have been oxygen. Then again, Roy thinks absently, maybe a person with flowers growing in their chest would have access to some of the _cleanest_ air in the world because the photosynthesis is literally in their lungs. Then again, unlikely, because no sun can shine all the way into the lungs.

All in all, the disease isn’t logical, and besides, it’s a goddamn _myth_. Roy’s still intrigued though, so he reads up on the scarce amounts of information the library offers. The more he reads, the most absurd the information in his brain is twisted to the realisation that he is most likely afflicted with the condition and should just accept it.

The one thing Roy is the most grateful for, which threatens to make him laugh, is that at least he’s not allergic to pollen. _God_ , he feels bad for those who are and end up coughing for someone.

 

* * *

 

The mornings are the worst part of the day, Roy has slowly come to realise. While he has never really been a morning person– nowadays it’s tougher. His body is stiff in the mornings and it constantly feels like he’s been sleeping with all of his muscles coiled tightly just to be released the minute before he awakes. And when he wakes to the dull autumn weather lurking outside his bedroom windows, Roy wishes for nothing more than to bury himself in the many blankets he keeps in his bed. Because he’s ill. And the cause of his illness gives him so much joy on sight, but also so much pain.

Roy knows in and out, from the research he’s done that the closer he is to Ed, the quicker the illness will progress towards his ultimate demise.

But still, every day, he drags himself out of bed and into the bathroom, where he stares onto his sleep-drunken face and hollow, empty eyes. He looks pathetic, he realises. Nothing like the Führer he so desperately hopes to become in the future. And now– now that he’s coughing for his barely-legal subordinate, that dream seems further away than the sun and the moon and _every single star_ that reminds him of Ed.

The cough that always comes a couple of minutes after rousing from his bed catches him by surprise, and Roy has to lean over the sink as he closes his eyes and gasps and feels the acidic taste in his mouth. And when he opens his eyes again, a single flower petal lays stark red against the white porcelain of the bathroom sink.

The full realisation hits him like a freight train and he turns his back against the wall, sinking down it. All the strength has left his body, and even breathing is a hard task because his throat _itches_ and his lungs hurt. And in the sink is the first physical proof of something that wasn’t meant to be.

After what feels like too long, Roy manages to get to his feet again. He doesn’t look in the mirror as he gets dressed in the crisp uniform shirt and stiff blue wool uniform jacket that hides a terminal illness that doesn’t _make sense_.

When Havoc picks him up that morning, he gets a ‘you don’t look so good, Chief. Maybe you should take the day off’ from the blond man. Roy doesn’t say anything. Havoc sighs and turns the key in the ignition.

 

* * *

 

The long days in the office are getting more unbearable by the week. He has to refrain from coughing whenever someone could hear, and the constant itch in his throat distracts him sufficiently enough that reading reports (which was never fun in the first place) practically impossible.

His lunch breaks are spent in the third-floor men’s bathroom coughing up blood-coloured petals that make his mouth taste like acid.

He knows that it’s only a matter of time before he’s going to start vomiting. The disease always does that to people. The petals will also cut his lungs and throat, making his breath gurgle and his cough wet. Soon, people will start to notice that he’s not getting _better_ , but _worse_. Roy doesn’t want that to happen.

He’s had a damn close few calls– letting a petal or two hang off his lips as he exits the bathroom or forgetting to check his lips for dried blood.

Roy feels constantly exhausted and heavy these days. Maybe someone has transmuted the air around him to have more atmospheres. The pressure around him is off. Maybe it’s his own alchemy unconsciously working against him.

Hanahaki does more odd things to people than fucking up their alchemy, after all.

He’s stopped wearing his pyrotex gloves. Looking at them reminds him of all the horrible crimes he’s committed which in return reminds him of how he doesn’t _deserve_ Ed’s love. He hasn’t used any form for alchemy since he coughed up that very first petal two months ago. He doesn’t have the guts because fire and plants are a bad combination.

He doesn’t want to risk burning the flowers growing in his chest, because the thought of harming the physical proof of his love for the younger man makes him nauseous.

But so does the flowers, so he’s pulled the short end of the deal no matter which way he looks.

 

* * *

 

Exactly four months after he spat out that petal, he’s cornered in his own home by one Alphonse Elric, who looks about as concerned for Roy as Roy feels himself.

The boy is 18 now, but Roy finds that hard to believe. In his mind, Al will always be the small 11-year-old stuck in a suit of armour that followed his brother through the dirtiest shit life could throw at them.

But here he is, wearing his brother’s red jacket and Roy can’t help but failing to stifle a laugh that ultimately turns into heavy coughing. He leans against the kitchen counter as Al comes up behind him and pats his back gingerly as if he’s hesitant to touch the General.

“You should really tell Brother, sir,” Al says as Roy scoops up the fire-red petals from the counter and drops them into the trashcan under the kitchen sink. “He wouldn’t want you to feel like this.”

Roy doesn’t look as he walks into the sitting room and waves for Al to take a seat on the couch. “I think you understand as well as I do that I cannot simply just ‘tell him’ that I’m potentially terminally ill if he doesn’t return my feelings. It would put him in a horrible predicament. You know your brother, Alphonse. He wouldn’t be able to cope with the death of someone he turned down.”

Al sits there on the couch, looking at his gloves. They have transmutation circles adorning the palms, Roy notices distantly, though exactly what they do, he’s not sure. Maybe it’s for something simple like amplifying and focusing power.

Not like Alphonse needs it anyway, he’s plenty strong and he’s seen the truth of the Gate, just like Ed and Roy and the boys’ teacher. Al won’t need a transmutation circle as long as he keeps his wits about him. It’s probably decoration; for people to recognise him as an alchemist.

Al looks up at him, and his face is tight with masked emotions. “So, what you’re saying is–you don’t want to hurt Brother by doing the one thing that would hurt him the most if he found out the reasoning behind your disease? That would _break_ him, General. And frankly, I don’t think Brother’s mind can stand to be broken anymore. You’ve seen it. I know you have.”

“The panic attack he had,” Roy remembers numbly. “He told you about it?”

“Not with words. But I saw it. His eyes looked dull that day. When he came home he just went straight into his bedroom without so much as greeting me or getting any food. That rarely happens unless he’s, like, seen somebody die. That he could have said.”

_Which was exactly what happened that one time, and I yelled at him for being reckless._

“I know he has a lot of nightmares concerning the past, but rarely has he looked so bad as that afternoon,” Al says, thoughtful. “But trust me, what you saw was merely just a crack in the wall. If he broke– like if you died, because believe me, that would break him –there would be no coming back. He wouldn’t be able to recover like he did after losing mom, after almost losing me, after losing me again–”

Al stops for a moment and Roy’s almost convinced that Al managed to get lost in the depths his mind before he recovers suddenly. “Anyways, General, I’m sure that you see the point.”

Roy swallows, “I do, Alphonse, I truly do. But I need you to be able to see my point as well. I am his commanding officer. There’s no way I can take advantage of my subordinate in such a manner. I couldn’t do that to him, and especially not to me. It’s not right for a superior officer to be coughing for their subordinate who’s over a decade younger.”

“I don’t want him to start coughing for you.”

Al’s voice is quiet, and Roy has to blink several times in an attempt to compose himself.

“Pardon?”

“My brother. His sense of taste has been … odd in the last couple of days. He insists that maybe he’s just catching a cold and it’s the congestion that alters it. He insists that winter is coming. But I know better. You do too, don’t you?”

Roy’s mind stilled. “You’re saying– _no_. It cannot be me. How about that childhood friend of yours– Winry Rockbell?”

“I doubt it. First of all, he’s gay. Second,” Al flushes and looks away. “She’s been together with me since the Promised Day or so. And trust me, Brother wouldn’t fall in love with her.”

“Congratulations on your relationship, although it might be a bit late,” Roy says and coughs weakly; no petals appear in his mouth and he prays that the fits will stay away for a bit longer. Or at least until Al is safely out of his house.

“Thank you.”

They sit in silence for a bit.

“No but honestly, General. I think you should say something to Brother before either of your conditions get so bad that there’s no turning back. I don’t want to lose him, not after all the times I almost have. And I doubt that the country would handle your death particularly well, either. You _are_ the most liked Führer candidate after all.”

Roy looks at him. “After all that I’ve done? After Ishval? After the coup d’êtat? I doubt that people would actually want me to overtake that position. And if word gets out that I’m coughing for– no. It will never happen. There are people more fit than me for that job.”

The itching is back. His lungs hurt, and it feels like the flowers have started to grow in his brain too. Roy doesn’t doubt for a second that they have. He can feel the petals slowly rising in his throat, but he bites them down; refuses to let Al see another one of his fits.

“Back to the topic. You’re saying that Edward is showing signs of it too? And you’re convinced that it’s me?”

Al looks hesitant for a moment. “Well, of course, not one hundred percent. I haven’t asked– that would be stupid. He would probably just deny anything and avoid me until I forgot about it. But–”

He stops again, and Roy looks out of the window at the setting sun. It’s bruised gold and red- just like Ed’s hair and jacket and- _fuck_ he’s thinking about it again. Thinking about Ed makes him feel content like he’s just walked into a warm and cosy cabin after being out in a snowstorm for hours. But the thought of his subordinate also makes his lungs _ache_ and the petals in his throat are doing a second attempt at coming out.

He swallows in a desperate attempt to avoid choking.

“Sometimes,” Al says, seemingly oblivious to Roy’s internal struggles. “Some evenings, he sits in the windowsill in the study and draws in the fog on the glass. I think he doesn’t notice that he’s doing it either because his eyes are always distant and not looking at what he’s doing. He tends to draw the same array over and over again– your array. It’s just that one he draws, absentminded. I think that’s a clear enough sign. Because if he had been properly in his head, he would have known how dangerous it is to draw air and fire manipulating arrays in fog on windows. He could have shattered the glass if he accidentally activated it.”

“So– you’re,” Roy holds a hand in front of his mouth as the cough starts wrecking him again. It _hurts_ , worse than it ever has and he can feel the bile rising in his throat and–

He bolts up and into the hallway, towards the downstairs bathroom. He flings open the door and barely manages to fall to his knees before he’s coughing and retching and the toilet is slowly filling with petals and blood and bile.

It’s not a pretty sight, so Roy closes his eyes once the fit stops. He takes a couple of seconds to recover himself before he stands up and flushes the toilet. One look in the mirror tells him that the sickness is getting worse because there’s blood diluted with bile staining his lips.

He rinses his mouth and face before leaving the bathroom and he goes back into the living room, where Al is sat with his notebook, looking concerned. He’s staring down into it, pretending that he didn’t hear Roy puking his guts up only a couple minutes ago.

“I apologise,” Roy says, as composed as he can, even though his throat hurts, and his voice is scratchy.

“No, no, it’s okay.”

_It’s not okay_. Roy can see it on the younger man’s face.

“Anyways. I think Brother might start coughing for you, so please, please, _please_ tell him so that I won’t lose him too.”

After saying that, Al gets up and tucks his notebook into the pocket of his jacket. “That was all I had to say, so I’ll be leaving now. I promised Brother that I would pick up some food for us on my way back from the ‘library’.”

He smiles, innocently as a bear trap and makes air quotation marks as he says the word ‘library’.

“Of course,” Roy says as he follows Al to the door. “I’m sorry, but until I’m certain that it’s me Ed is coughing for, I cannot confess to anything.”

“Just don’t die. Because then, I will dig up your corpse and bring you back just so that I can kill you again for hurting my brother.” The expression turns into one of Al-typical happiness and he chirps, “Good night, General!”

Roy swallows. “Duly noted, Alphonse. Have a pleasant evening.”

 

* * *

 

The flower is poisonous.

Great.

He’s holding one of the flowers he’s newly coughed up and comparing it to the illustration in the library book.

 

_Delphinium Cardinale_

 

_It’s a flower that grows after forest fires. Bright red, it is more commonly known under the name of either Cardinal or Scarlet Larkspur. There are many other plants similar to it in different colours. However beautiful and grand (commonly reaching over two metres) it may be however, it contains several poisons_. _If ingested in sufficient amounts, the flower can cause complete motor paralysis and breathing obstructions. In some cases, the poisoning can be fatal._

 

Roy sighs and closes the book before throwing the flower in the trash can and putting the book away in the appropriate library bookshelf. So most likely the poison will kill him before the disease does. _Fuck_.

 

* * *

 

Roy steps into the main office just as Ed and Al walk in the door. He stops for a moment, taking in how Ed looks like he’s come down with a cold, but shrugs it off. Al is wrong, he _has_ to be.

“I just got a phone call from Lieutenant Ashton that they have successfully implemented safe drinking water in Miestas. For those of you who can’t remember, that’s the project that has been tirelessly worked on for the last two months to heighten the quality of life in that region.”

He stops for a moment to swallow; the itch in his throat is constant now and speaking only worsens it to the point where uttering a sentence makes him feel close to another fit. Cold water helps but bringing a glass or a bottle with him everywhere he goes is suspicious.

“That’s great, sir,” Alphonse says politely as he takes a seat on the couch against one of the walls. “I’m glad that the water issue finally got resolved. The situation got rather dire a few weeks back, didn’t it?”

“Yes,” Roy says and clears his throat, feeling the petals clog up his windpipe. “They had a severe setback caused by a plumbing mistake that accidentally let the sewer system run together with the safe water supply. Thankfully, it was noticed early on so that there were no major persisting consequences.”

Ed’s beautiful. Ethereal. Glowing. But today it’s dulled; like someone has taken the lightbulb inside of Ed and dimmed it.

_Matted_ _hair. Pale skin. Silence._

Ed doesn’t look like himself, and Roy’s heart clenches. He’s in love with Ed. Deep. Terminally.

The cough catches him off guard.

He tries to suppress it, but it’s too late. His hand is pressed to his mouth, but petals manage to press themselves past the small gaps in between his fingers. Hawkeye’s up from her chair immediately and by his side by the time he’s blinked twice.

It’s too late now. They all know.

Roy lets his hand drop from his mouth and he watches the blood-red petals drop to the floor in front of him. He knows that there is blood around his mouth; it’s dripping down his chin and onto his uniform.

It’s hard to breathe, but Roy tries to level it as he slowly meets the eyes of everyone in the office, seeing their various reactions to seeing their boss cough up the contents of half a greenhouse in front of them with no previous warning.

It’s the pain in his hand that finally makes him look down. He tries to flex his fingers, but they refuse to listen to the commands his brain tries to send along with neurotransmitters through his nervous system.

It takes him a second to remember.

 

_If ingested in sufficient amounts, the flower can cause complete motor paralysis and breathing obstructions_

 

Someone’s been gradually tightening a rope around his neck for the past week, but Roy had failed to realise exactly how far along the disease is. He’s dying.

The cough wrecks him again, and this time, his body doesn’t have the energy to keep itself upright, no matter how hard his poison-stained brain tries to force it to.

He’s dying.

In front of his team.

In front of Edward.

It makes him think to a passage he read about the disease.

 

_Not only proximity affects how the disease progresses; seeing the person in focus of your attraction suffering progresses the disease along far faster than what ordinary everyday contact does._

 

If Ed’s coughing; he should be now. But he isn’t.

Al had been wrong.

There’s blood dribbling out of his mouth now and Roy can feel how laboured his breath is; how his lungs keep trying to inhale the essential oxygen and push out the carbon dioxide. It’s not enough.

Alphonse is by his side, Roy’s brain tells him, and he looks up to see the concerned expression on Al’s face.

His vision is blurry. Is it supposed to be blurry? Probably not. There’s a hook attached to the back of his stomach, pulling forward and the rush of waves in his ears are growing deafeningly loud.

The world around him is rapidly fading into nothingness, and the last thing he manages to do is look up at Ed sitting on the couch, staring at him, eyes wide open and shoulders tense.

 

* * *

 

Ed’s shocked. There’s an ache in his chest and static in his ears as he tries and fails to take in the situation in front of him. This can’t be possible. No. No. _No_.

Something is lodged in his throat and his eyes widen even more. He has to keep it down– _has_ to keep everyone from seeing it.

All the blood has drained from his face, but he feels too hot all over. It feels like something has him in a vice grip and is squeezing in pulsing motions that has him almost falling off the couch.

In front of him, Roy’s laying on his side, with Al having to pull out petals from his mouth every couple of seconds to prevent him from choking on the flowers growing in his lungs.

Someone has muffled his hearing, but it’s Hawkeye’s voice that’s calling out for Fuery to _run as fast as his legs can carry him to the front desk and tell them that there’s a potentially life-threatening medical emergency in General Mustang’s office._

He doesn’t know how to deal with this. How is one supposed to act when the love of your life– when your love for that person is _literally_ slowly killing you –is on the floor unresponsive and pale? Ed doesn’t know.

The flowers are lodging in his throat, but Ed doesn’t want to acknowledge them; not _now_. Not when it doesn’t matter.

Roy’s not coughing for him. So Ed will die anyway. The least he can do is choose who gets to know. And Ed knows, from the tips of his toes to the very top of his head that nobody will _ever_ get to know.

Al knows.

But that doesn’t count.

Because Ed didn’t tell him.

So he can pretend that Al doesn’t know and lives happily on in oblivion.

Fuery is back. He’s all red in the face and shaky and his chest is heaving with the need to supply oxygen to his brain. Ed thinks that Fuery’s pretty damn _lucky_ to have fully functional lungs.

“ _G-od.”_

He’s caught off guard by the way his body betrays him and he’s choking out the words as bright red fucking _rose_ petals spew out of his mouth and fall down onto his lap. He thinks the room might have gone even quieter.

It doesn’t stay that way for long. There are still flowers pushing up his trachea and he’s _choking_. And Ed tells himself that if he ever gets out of this alive, he’s never, _ever_ , gonna let Al grow rose bushes in their garden or keep any in the house.

The smell of them is sweet in his nose– almost nauseatingly so. He’s coughing and gagging as petal after petal joins the pile on his lap and on the floor. He’s on his hands and knees now and when the coughing finally stops, he looks up and meets Roy’s half-open eyes.

“Al,” he whispers. “Roy.”

And Al looks back at Roy so quickly it looks like he might have given himself whiplash as he asks Roy what kind of flower he’s coughing up. Ed doesn’t hear what Roy manages to choke out. He’s too occupied with watching the office door slam open. Paramedics are rushing in and kneeling by Roy’s side just as another cough wrecks him out of consciousness.

They pull Roy onto the stretcher and leave after one of them send a look in Ed’s direction telling him that he has to come into the hospital too to get checked out et cetera. Ed feels dead on the inside.

He stands up, wipes the petals from his mouth and glares at Al. “You _knew_? You knew all this time and didn’t tell _me_? How _could_ you–”

He gags on the flowers clogging up his trachea, but he just angrily pulls the petals from his tongue and continues. “You knew that he was sick, but you didn’t think to tell anyone? Who is he coughing for, Al? Tell me! Tell me it isn’t me– I don’t want to be the reason for this. There _has_ to be someone else– Vanessa from the bar or something…”

He falters. Al’s looking at him with _that_ expression that tells him exactly what he doesn’t want to know.

“No.”

“He didn’t want to tell you– it wouldn’t be appropriate, he said. He was scared you would run and leave him to die.”

Al’s voice is quiet and suddenly Ed feels bad for losing his temper at his _little_ brother who has for– Ed doesn’t know –an unspecified amount of time seen his brother and his brother’s CO slowly kill each other by being _idiots_.

“I would never.”

“The two of you aren’t particularly subtle.”

Hawkeye’s voice comes like a shock to Ed; he had been almost certain that she had left along with Roy. He looks up. “Huh?”

There’s a small smile pulling at her lips, although her face is tight with worried lines. “Whenever you barged in here being all ‘obnoxious and almost certainly his cause of death before forty’ we saw him visibly perk up. He enjoyed having you here and it showed in you too.”

Havoc is looking at him with some gentle sadness Ed hasn’t ever seen on his face before. “After bad missions, you usually storm in here looking like someone had died–”

“Usually someone had,” Breda says. He’s wearing the exact same expression as Hawkeye, and Havoc, and Fuery, and Falman. Fond sadness. Ed doesn’t know why they would look like that.

“–and you’d look bereft like someone had pulled a literal carpet from underneath your feet. Then you’d go into the General’s office and we’d just hear bickering for half an hour or nothing at all and then you’d come out looking a million times better.”

Ed’s throat is dry.

He’s not gonna cry.

“We saw the two of you fall for each other. Especially after that day–” Fuery trails off, and Ed knows that he’s referring to the day of his panic attack, when afterwards, he had fallen asleep on the couch in Mustang- _Roy’s_ inner office and Roy had gone and gotten him hot chocolate.

“Everything seemed fine. You got along better, there was less yelling and you mellowed out a bit– like you didn’t have to hide as much from him underneath that mask of anger you wore.”

Hawkeye has crouched down next to him and is patting his back gently. “We should get to the hospital. You’re not okay either. If you’re coughing up blood you’re pretty far along too. You need to see the General.”

“I know,” Ed rasps. “Let’s … let’s just go.”

 

* * *

 

Roy Mustang is possibly the stupidest man in the entirety of Amestris, Drachma _and_ Xing. Ed sighs as he leans against the cold car window. He’s clutching one of the empty trash cans from the office considering it’s the lesser evil to be treated as a sick person rather than spew rose petals all over the car every minute. The military hospital is surprisingly far away from Central Command, and he can’t help but be annoyed about that.

One would think that people get hurt enough in that building that someone would be sensible enough to at least place the fucking hospital for military officials only to be closer to headquarters.

Roy didn’t tell him, not even when Al had told him that Ed was getting sick too. It just proves to him more that when the bastard is faced with something serious related to emotions, he will run and be a literal wimp. The cough doesn’t bother him anymore. It’s the pain in his lungs that do, and Ed knows that unless he gets to the hospital very quickly, he may suffer the same fate as Roy.

Roses aren’t as toxic as Cardinal Larkspurs; Ed knows that much from his brief visit to whichever-lab-in-Central-that-dealt-with-botanical-alchemy. Roses, however, are way more common and Ed’s probably doomed to a very hard life with his newly acquired hate for the flower in question.

Al, who is sitting next to him, is looking down at his hands, which are clasped tightly in his lap. Does he feel guilty about the situation? He didn’t do anything wrong. In fact, if he hadn’t gone and … threatened Roy that one time, the two of them would probably have been dead by now.

Thinking about it makes his head hurt more than it already does and Ed’s starting to wonder if that’s the consequence of growing flowers in your lungs. He won’t ever recommend it to anyone, because it fucking _sucks_.

And if anyone decides that it’s somehow a good idea, he’ll tell them to choose one _without_ thorns.

Ed’s unsteady on his feet as he wobbles into the hospital, but the receptionist only takes one look at him before gesturing down a hall towards some staircases while mentioning some number Ed doesn’t really pay attention to.

He’s worried, oh so worried, and with the way he feels, he might just have another panic attack right here. He refrains, swallows and starts walking in tempo Mustang would likely have called ‘brisk’ towards the stairs.

He’s dizzy and exhausted from coughing up flowers and his automail could probably use a tune-up with how hard it is to get up the three flights of stairs it takes to get to Mustang’s room.

The door’s open and just as he’s about to walk inside the cough hits him harder than it has all of those … 30 minutes? 45? He’s not sure.

He stumbles and just barely manages to catch himself on the chair that’s standing right next to the door. When he manages to take a breath that doesn’t leave him dizzy and starving for oxygen, the anger in him manages to simmer and boil.

“What the fuck, you bastard? You knew all this time but you didn’t think to tell me? How fucking selfish can you be? Al told you he was suspecting I was getting sick too, and what do you do? A fat load of _nothing_!” Ed’s voice is probably hysterical, but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t care that all the anxiety that’s pent up in him is trying to escape and it’s making his headache worse.

He stops for a moment to catch his breath, and when he opens his mouth again and tries to speak, his voice cracks. “I love you, you absolute fucking dumbass, wasn’t that obvious? Would you rather have died than telling me? Do you have any idea how _horrible_ I would feel? Everybody else knew!”

Ed gestures to the door where the rest of the team plus Al is standing looking at them. They’re all still wearing that dumb expression Ed can’t decipher. He doesn’t really care. Not when Mustang is in front of him and there are tears rolling down both of their cheeks.

He looks at Roy for another brief moment before turning back at Al. He’s heartbroken and Ed’s almost sure that it must show because Al only nods and closes the door to give them some privacy.

“You could have t-told me,” Ed whispers. “I understand that it’s an issue, me being young ‘n’ your subordinate and all, but you could at least have _told_ me.”

 “I’m sorry,” Roy says. His voice is hoarse, likely as much from the tears rolling down onto his shirt as the coughing. “I’m sorry, Edward–”

Roy doubles over and Ed’s panic spikes to frankly dangerous levels as Roy’s body is wrecked with a cough that has him _puking_ bright red blood onto the pristine white bedsheets. Ed runs over to him as quickly as he can, sees the desperation in Roy’s eyes as he tries to manage the cough. “Ed– my eyes. My– legs.”

And Ed’s brain catches up to the situation; remembers what the toxins in the Cardinal Larkspur can do. And even though this is probably gross and will likely choke Roy to some degree, Ed fists a hand in his shirt and pulls him into a bruising kiss.

“I love you,” he whispers against Roy’s bloodied lips. “I love you, I love you, I love you, _I love you_.”

And through the cough, through the choked sounds Roy’s making and the wheezing of his lungs, Ed hears it. Hears it back. “I love you too.”

Roy’s cough doesn’t let up but it sounds somehow lighter. Like instead of choking him, his body is just trying to get rid of the flowers. Which means that–

Ed pulls away from Roy as the cough crawls up his trachea. There are rose petals _and_ blood covering the now-ruined bedsheets but Ed finds that he doesn’t really care. He’s probably guaranteed himself a hospital stay with the state of his lungs now that they’ve been all torn up by the rose stalks.

“Promise me one thing,” Ed rasps as he looks at Roy. “Don’t ever buy me roses. I fucking hate them.”

Roy’s hoarse laugh is the most refreshing thing he’s heard all day.

 

* * *

 

 “Al, get me out of here, I’m begging you,” Ed says nine days into his and Roy’s two-week hospital stay. Technically, he doesn’t need to stay there as a patient since his lungs have healed more or less fully, but Roy’s still there and he doesn’t intend to leave him for some time, no matter his health.

“Nah, Brother. I think you’re doing just fine here. At least you’re not being poked with needles, unlike the General.”

His brother his evil, clearly, and Ed looks over at Roy with an exasperated look that he doesn’t get in return. They’d found out quickly that Roy’s body had actually taken a fair bit of damage from the poison. His vision, as well as legs, had been affected, although not too majorly.

“I think, Alphonse, that you should underestimate those needles before I accidentally trip and make one of them poke you,” Roy says pleasantly, although there’s an undertone that can only be described as ‘promised violence on lover’s behalf’.

“You wouldn’t, General. Too much risk of infection, considering how your body still has the poison in it.”

Ed snarls at that statement. Little was known about the poison in the flowers Roy had unwillingly cultivated in his own lungs which had left the two of them to be banned from anything more than ‘cuddling and handholding’ by the nurses and doctors until they were both discharged with an ‘all clear.’

Ed kind of hated the doctors.

“Look on the bright side, Edward. At least in here, the two of us can at least avoid paperwork. I think that should be counted as a big plus for being confined to one room for two weeks with people checking up on you _especially_ while you are sleeping to make sure that you won’t suddenly die.”

Roy’s voice is filled with amusement, which clearly then necessities Ed to get up and press himself into the too-narrow hospital bed with Roy while making sure to not get tangled up in any of the tubes and wires connecting to him. He leans close to Roy. “If you do, I’ll kill you.”

Roy laughs. “Do that. You’ve tried once, and I don’t doubt you’ll try again.”

“Smart choice. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on Tumblr @vampiricalthorns


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